The hallway is quiet. Almost too quiet.

The afterparty’s still going somewhere down the hall — music thumping faintly through the hotel walls, glasses clinking, laughter echoing. But in this narrow corridor, under this flickering light, it’s just them.

Alex leans against the wall, cigarette burning low between his fingers, eyes fixed on her like she’s a problem he’s never been able to solve.

She stops when she sees him. Of course she does. She always stops when it’s him.

He exhales slowly. Smoke curls up around his jaw.

“You looked real cozy with him tonight,” he says, voice calm, too calm. “What’s his name again? Logan? Liam? Who gives a shit.”

She doesn’t answer. She never does when he’s like this.

He pushes off the wall and walks toward her, slow and measured, boots loud against the carpet. He stops inches away. Looks down at her. That crooked half-smile on his face — not quite amused. Not quite angry. Somewhere in between.

“Bet he doesn’t know your tells,” he mutters. “That thing you do when you’re nervous. The way you mess with your rings. You did it all night.”

She shifts. Barely.

Alex’s jaw ticks. His eyes scan hers. Searching. Digging.

“You let him touch you like he owns you,” he says, softer now, voice low and cracked. “But you look at me like you forgot how to breathe.”

His hand comes up like he’s going to touch her cheek — but he doesn’t. Not quite.

“You trying to make me jealous, or are you just pretending you don’t feel it too?”

The air is thick. Charged. Her lips part, but still — she says nothing.

He leans in, close enough that his breath brushes her skin.

“Say something,” he whispers. “Or I swear I’m gonna kiss you and really fuck everything up.”